


One Hundred Ways

by oleanderhoney



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 100 ways, Domestic Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Some angst, Tumblr Prompt, Vignetts, post-series 3
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-11
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-04-20 07:06:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4778087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oleanderhoney/pseuds/oleanderhoney
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John have come far, just the two of them against all odds; against the world. Sherlock wouldn't know where he would be without John, but how can he even come close to expressing the sentiment, when all the words in the English language aren't enough?</p><p>Based on the tumblr prompt <a href="http://gay-b-riel.tumblr.com/post/128349688085/one-hundred-ways-to-say-i-love-you">'100 Ways to Say I Love You.'</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1. "Pull over; let me drive for a while."

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! If you've been keeping up with me, you know that I just recently got a new computer after my old one took a dump. I lost quite a bit of data, so that's why none of my other stuff has been updating, and to be honest, I'm quite discouraged with the places my stories are at right now. So what's a Honey to do? START A NEW FIC?? But of course!!! Really, this is to get me back in the habit of writing, and I know the tumblr prompt isn't really original, but this is something I want to try and update every day on a consistent basis. Mostly because you guys deserve it, and I want to challenge myself.
> 
> As always I am open for feedback or requests, and you can hit me up anytime on [tumblr,](http://oleanderhoney.tumblr.com/) or my email.
> 
> Love you all, and hope you enjoy.
> 
> xxHoney

* * *

John wanted to throw her ashes into the sea.

He thought a funeral wouldn’t be apt, considering Mary Morstan wasn’t even a real person aside from a grave marker in Chiswick. So, he let her be laid to rest in a standard pine casket without any fanfare. He let her keep his name, for what it was worth.

His unborn daughter, however.

When Sherlock asked why he decided on cremation, John’s response was:

“She’ll get to see the sun that way.”

Which was just as well. Sherlock didn’t think he could stomach the sight of John’s child being lowered into the cold ground, either. For all Sherlock deferred to the laws of nature, there was something inherently wrong with tiny, toy-sized coffins. Nothing natural about it.

For three days, the sombre, violet urn sat in the middle of John and Mary’s breakfast table while John moved about the flat like a ghost, the weight of sorrow pervading the air like an oppressive shroud. It was half-heartedly suggested by John before the crushing silence took hold of him, that Sherlock wasn’t obligated to stay, and that if he wanted, he could return to Baker Street. Sherlock acknowledged this, then quietly refused to do any such thing, ignoring the look of relief on his friend’s face, and allowing him to make them each another cup of tea regardless of the fact either of them had yet to finish the first.

~*~

The decision to make a trip to Pembrokeshire was announced suddenly one night. John, still adrift in his grief, managed to surface long enough to tell Sherlock his desire to hike along the coastal path so he might scatter his daughter’s ashes. Noticing the grey circles under his friend’s eyes, and his chapped and pale lips, Sherlock took care of all the details without question, taking the liberty of packing their suitcases after he sent John to bed with a cup of tea in the hopes he would actually get a good night’s rest.

The next morning, they left early, John insisting on driving the Land Rover Sherlock borrowed from Mycroft with a certain desperate stoicism, countenance hardened with duty, the familiar posture of the soldier shining through the fractures of his frame. It pained Sherlock to see it, and yet gave him a modicum of hope. His John was still in there, somewhere.

They were mostly silent the whole way up there, and even on the hike, Sherlock made sure to hang back a bit, sensing John wanted some space as he carried the small urn all the way to the bluffs.

He sat on a boulder, watching from afar as his only friend in the world — the only decent human being on the planet, as far as Sherlock was concerned — said goodbye to the daughter he never knew. When his shoulders began to shake, Sherlock had to look away, unable to watch as John Watson cried for his lost future. His lost joy.

God, he felt so useless, inept. And guilty. 

Never had time been so of the essence before. Never had it mattered so much not to fail. But fail he did, and John paid the price. If only he had finished what he started back in Serbia… if only he hadn’t come back when he did…

_If only. If only._

He looked down at his hands where they were clutching his trousers, and forced them to let go. There was no changing what happened. The only thing he could do was spend the rest of his life making it up to John. And he planned on doing just that, for as long as John would have him, even if it indeed meant he never wanted to see Sherlock again. He would do it, too. He would leave for good. He would do anything.

Everything.

It wasn’t long before John straightened his spine, and turned on his heel back the way they came, placing the now empty urn in the centre of a moss-covered stump. The other trees around it made a sort of canopy, fitting in a picturesque way that even Sherlock could appreciate, amongst the rambling harebells and wild daisies. It was beautiful, and if there was a stinging in Sherlock’s eyes, well, he blamed it on the salty sea air as he looked back over his shoulder at the simple alter. John couldn’t bring himself to give his stillborn daughter a name, and this, too, seemed fitting.

The ride back to London was more of the same, however, Sherlock noticed the shaking in John’s hands steadily worsen mile after mile. He debated with himself about making a comment, for them to maybe stop for the night at a motel, or something, but the look on John’s face told him stopping wasn’t an option.

“John —”

“No.”

“John, pull over.”

“I can’t, Sherlock. I don’t want to stay here.”

“I know, just pull over,” Sherlock insisted. “You’re nearly hyperventilating.”

John stopped the car on the side of the road, slamming on the brakes just a little too hard. He leant over and placed his forehead against the steering wheel in an attempt to control his breathing.

“Fuck, Sher…lock. Fuck,” he said, words harsh and uttered through clenched teeth.

“I…” he swallowed around the tightness. Began again, “I know.”

“No you — no you don’t. You don’t,” John said through a sob.

“No, you’re right. I don’t,” Sherlock said.

John laughed at this, but the laughter devolved into another broken gasp. Feeling utterly useless, Sherlock did the only thing he could think of, and tentatively placed a hand on John’s shoulder.

The reaction was instantaneous. John stiffened, a choked noise coming from his raw throat, and for a moment everything was still. Then, the tension drained out of him, and he turned suddenly, pulling Sherlock into himself. Even with the awkward positioning, Sherlock was surprised at how well they fit together, and didn’t hesitate in gathering John even further into his arms. 

John buried his face into the crook of Sherlock’s neck, and even though John was nearly silent, Sherlock could feel the damp splashes of tears bleed into his shirt collar. He murmured soothing nonsense against John’s crown, and when it seemed to make little difference, he stopped talking and simply held him. John smelled like stale sweat and exhaustion; like grief itself.

“Don’t…don’t leave me, Sherlock. Don’t ever leave me,” John said sometime later. “I couldn’t…I can’t —”

“Never,” Sherlock said, helping him into the passenger side of the car. “Now try to get some rest; I’ll drive for a while.”

John nodded, leaning his head back against the seat. He was asleep within minutes.

Sherlock kept driving, and didn’t wake him until they reached Baker Street.


	2. 2. "It reminded me of you."

Sherlock had never stooped so low as to buy anything kitschy from a tourist shop until now. He must have had a minor stroke, he thought as he stared down at the…thing in his hand, because he would swear under polygraph that he didn’t remember even purchasing it. But, here he was, sitting at the kitchen table staring at the ridiculous figurine he somehow acquired on his way home from Barts.

Just then, a familiar tread on the steps alerted Sherlock to John’s presence, and he jumped a mile high. He had been living back at Baker Street for a month now, but Sherlock was still so unaccustomed to another person in the flat. He had been alone so much over the past three years, that it was hard to adjust.

“I’m back. Tesco’s out of the yoghurt I like,” John said colourlessly, and placed the carrier bags on the table. He opened his mouth to say something else, when his eyes landed on the object of Sherlock’s puzzled disdain. He frowned, gaze sharpening a shade, his expression suddenly something other than that tepid apathy he’d favoured as of late. “Sherlock?”

“Mm?” Sherlock said, steepling his fingers so he could likewise glare at the figurine. Instead he observed John out of the corner of his eye, because the reaction he garnered was the most he’d seen out of his friend since Wales. 

“Is that —? What is that?”

“It appears to be a miniature statue of a dog of some kind.”

“It’s a corgi. Wearing sunglasses.”

“Yes.”

“And it’s holding a Union Jack.”

“So it would seem,” Sherlock said. He plucked it off the table and plopped it in John’s hand. “Welcome to London.”

John stared down at the hokey cartoon dog, an odd scowl on his face. There was a beat of silence where Sherlock had just enough time to wonder if he somehow annoyed him, when John suddenly burst out laughing.

“Welcome…welcome to London?” he wheezed. A slow, yet confused smile spread across Sherlock’s face. John just laughed even harder until he was giddy with it. He tried to catch his breath. “Do you realise you said that to me on our first case?” he said, and shook his head.

Something in Sherlock’s chest loosened a fraction, a tightness he didn’t know was there, until warm relief took its place.

“It’s yours,” Sherlock said, unable to contain his grin. “I bought it for you,” he said, realising the truth of the words as they were uttered.

John snorted, setting the kettle on the hob, the figure still in his hand. “Why?”

_Because, it’s been too long since I’ve seen you smile._

_Because, you haven’t laughed like that in ages._

_Because —_

“It reminded me of you.”


	3. 3. "No, no. It's my treat."

It was a well known fact that if you wanted a pair of hand-crafted, bespoke shoes in London, GJ Cleverly was your man. 

Sherlock, of course, preferred his shoes special ordered from Italy, but he could vouch for a pair of _Cleverlys,_ if only due to the fact John owned a pair, and subsequently wore them into the ground. They were sturdy and of good make, and when John sadly had to part with them, he bemoaned their loss ardently. Which was annoying and endearing in equal measure. Especially whenever he referred to them as his 'James Bond' shoes.

Why he didn't just buy a new pair was beyond Sherlock. It's not like he was lacking in funds, what with his part-time job at the clinic, and the shared earnings from their clients. But, if Sherlock learnt anything about his flatmate over the years, it was that John wasn't prone to fits of frivolity. He always said Sherlock indulged enough for the both of them, and out of the pair of them he should at least be the responsible one. To which, Sherlock would usually scoff and order a brand new set of beakers just for the hell of it.

However, John deserved new James Bond Shoes. And knowing that John would never purchase them himself, on account his first ones were a gift from Harry in the first place, Sherlock would just have to bear that particular burden.

But, if John smiled the way he did at Sherlock whenever he did something particularly clever, it wouldn't be a difficult burden to bear. Not at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here are the first three chapters for you guys. I know they are short, but like I said, I am going to try to post every day. Comments and kudos are always more than welcome! xxHoney


	4. 4. "Come here. Let me fix it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello you guys! Here's another chapter like promised. Thanks to you all who are reading. xxHoney

The case — their first proper one in ages — was a whirl-wind that started out as an innocuous Four, and ended up nearly a Nine, as they followed clues and raced across rooftops. The culprit, a vintage American museum curator they later found out was the Doris Day Killer, led them on a chase that ended at the museum’s warehouse.

In a snap decision, Sherlock and John decided to split up to cover more ground, a decision that unfortunately ended with Sherlock being cornered next to the 50s Diner memorabilia due to a minor miscalculation on his part. Luckily for him, John managed to subdue the imbecile by driving an old Chevy Bel Air into a conveniently placed scaffolding. It was a brilliant case that ended in their customary adrenaline fueled laughter and post-case Chinese, and Sherlock wasn't even irritated in having to come in early the next morning to fill out paperwork.

He was still high on solving the case when they returned, and couldn't help himself from chattering non-stop while John smiled and put the kettle on, indulging him with all the right noises and his customary John-attentiveness as he listened. Eventually, though, the excitement wore off like it usually does, and chagrined, it took Sherlock a while to notice that his monologuing was a bit more one-sided than normal. He stopped his pacing, eyes lighting on his blogger.

A small snore escaped from John's lips, his head lolling against where it was propped against his hand. He was half slumped on the sofa, completely dead to the world. 

A smile curved Sherlock's lips. He really should rouse John so he could go to sleep in his own bed, but he looked exhausted. So, Sherlock merely tossed a bright coloured afghan over him, and took himself off to the kitchen to finish his catalog on various fungi.

Sherlock didn't know how much time passed, absorbed like he was, but eventually he became aware of a slight noise at the edge of his consciousness.

At first it was faint enough for him to ignore, just a small whisper of a sound he could tune out easily. But when the noises became louder, Sherlock finally emerged from his intense concentration, head whipping around in the direction of the sitting room, not entirely caught up with the alarm his brain was subconsciously prodding him with. A sharp inhale followed by a whimper, had everything snapping into focus, and he sat up straight on his stool.

_John._

“No-o!” 

John's cry of distress had Sherlock on his feet in an instant, his heart thumping an odd tattoo in his chest.

“John?” he answered, flicking on the lamp in the corner.

John was thrashing in his sleep, the afghan twisted around him, trapping his left arm behind his back in an angle that had to be uncomfortable. With his free arm, he lashed out, and Sherlock just managed to leap back in time to avoid a wild blow.

“John. Listen to me. Listen to my voice,” Sherlock said from a safe distance, words low and calm. “You're having a nightmare, wake up.”

John continued to struggle with an invisible foe, but he stilled somewhat, obviously trying to wake from the dream that held him captive. Sherlock remained perched on the ground next to him, murmuring a steady stream of words in attempt to get through to him until John finally woke with a gasp and a yelp, all but flinging himself off the sofa.

“John,” Sherlock repeated, likewise getting to his feet.

“Sh-Sherlock?” John gulped, then grimaced, his right hand coming up to clutch at his left shoulder. “Fuck.”

Sherlock's eyes darted to the shoulder where the old gunshot wound lay. Everything about John's posture and the tense lines around his eyes suggested muscle spasm, and a painful one at that. It was no wonder, considering he all but crashed a car today.

“Bad dream?” Sherlock asked, tearing his gaze away and forcing himself to look into John's face despite wanting to go over there and soothe the ache away somehow.

John merely nodded, flexing his fingers. When he attempted to rotate his arm however, he cried out again, and Sherlock couldn't help himself.

“Come here,” he said, holding his hand out before he even knew what he was doing.

“What?” John said, stilling, a puzzled frown on his face.

“Let me fix it? Please?” said Sherlock, holding his hand out further. After a beat, John nodden again, and let Sherlock guide him down into his arm chair, tentatively holding out his left arm like a broken wing.

Sherlock cupped John's elbow, taking the weight of his arm with his left hand, and with his right, he began to gently knead the muscles running up the side of John's neck. They were stiff and unrelenting at first, and John ended up gritting his teeth through the initial pain, but after a while, they loosened up enough for Sherlock to move onward much to John's relief.

His fingers stuttered briefly over the impression of scar tissue he found through the soft material of John's cotton shirt before continuing down to the bottom of John's shoulder blade. After all this time, Sherlock still hadn't seen it, and couldn't help but deduce as much as he could from that brief touch.

John was shot from behind at intermediate range, the entry of the bullet irregular due to the tumbling of the bullet in flight, leaving a keyhole like impression, and given the diameter of the bullet track shearing from the top of the keyhole, it was likely he was shot with a high velocity weapon. A rifle of some sort, military grade, if he were to guess.

John cleared his throat, and Sherlock realised with a start that he stopped massaging, lost in his deductions. He went to apologise because this was most definitely in the category of Not Good, but John just shook his head, giving him that small, fond smile of his.

“It's okay,” John said. “I'll tell you about it sometime. Or rather, you'll tell me,” he joked.

“Right,” Sherlock said, face heating. Their hands were still clasped together, adding to Sherlock's sudden awkwardness. However, when he tried to let go, John tangled their fingers together, an earnest look on his face.

He opened his mouth, then closed it, that shadow of a frown back in place between his indigo eyes. For a moment, the air between them was thick with something Sherlock couldn't name, but the moment passed with a sigh, and a light squeeze of fingers.

“Thank you, Sherlock,” John said, swallowing audibly.

“You're welcome, John,” Sherlock replied, and John slowly retracted his hand. He watched as John smiled again before shuffling himself up the stairs to his room, leaving the rest of the flat silent once more.

Experimentation and fungus forgotten, Sherlock reclined on the sofa for the rest of the night, tracing his left hand with his fingertips. There was a tingling sensation in them that he didn't know what to think of, only that it didn't dissipate for a long, long time.


	5. 5. "I'll walk you home."

It was raining.

Which wasn't completely unheard of for London, however, today mother nature decided to up the ante and deliver rain that was monsoon-like in its proportions. Sheets of it lashed against windows, and filled the gutters to over flowing, buckets of rainfall the likes of which had the meteorologists nearly gushing about on every channel. It was raining, and John was at the surgery without an umbrella.

This salient fact hit Sherlock seemingly out of nowhere, and he abruptly lowered his violin. How this inconsequential iota of information managed to surface in the midst of his contemplation of quantum physics, was beyond him; the random minutiae of _John Watson – clinic – rain – sans umbrella_ pushing to the forefront of his mind, niggling for his attention, when he could literally be thinking of a million other things at the moment. It was rather perplexing, though unsurprising, that John was never far away from the edge of his consciousness.

The torrent of rain shook the window glass, and Sherlock knew he wouldn't be able to go back to his playing.

“Mrs. Hudson!” he shouted over the din. “I need to borrow your umbrella!”

~*~

Taking Mrs. Hudson's umbrella – her antiquated, eleven-year-old umbrella – was perhaps an oversight considering that Sherlock, well, _didn't_ consider the wind. The moment he stepped outside and tried to open the damn thing, a sudden gale blustered up behind him and blew the umbrella inside out, snapping the arms in the process. (Now why someone decided making an umbrella out of wood was a good idea, Sherlock didn't know, but they were clearly an imbecile.)

And, of course this was Mrs. Hudson's only umbrella, and therefore the only bleeding umbrella in all of Baker Street.

So, braving the rain, Sherlock took himself to the corner shop and purchased a new one, getting thoroughly soaked in the process. 'Storm of the Century,' indeed.

However, what he also failed to account for, was that none of the London cabs – the ones that were on duty, that was – would even stop for him, regardless of his now-functioning umbrella.

Vowing to never tell John about this fluke in his usually spot on cab-summoning abilities, Sherlock trudged to the nearest Tube station, grumbling under his breath. 

He hated the Tube. There were always too many people, and today was no exception. In fact, it was nearly filled to bursting with impatient people likewise jilted due to fickle cabbies and freakish downpours. It was hard for Sherlock not to deduce the crowd around him, the proximity making it impossible for Sherlock to tune out the ephemera floating about his head like a swarm of angry gnats.

Each stop the crowd shifted, allowing Sherlock to move just a little closer to the side, hoping for a seat in some corner where he could at least get away from the crush. The moment an opportunity presented itself, he leapt at it, his head already throbbing from the constant battery of information. He was able to take a breather and organise his Mind Palace, which at the moment felt as if someone knocked over a heavy stack of books, their contents clattering about in his skull, their meticulous order shot to hell.

He was so focused on reordering his thoughts, he didn't realise until a moment too late that his hands were empty, too busy forming esoteric gestures in the process of his cataloging. He turned around just in time to watch the train leave, his umbrella no doubt sitting on the seat where he left it.

With a snarl, Sherlock hiked up the collar of his belstaff and made his way promptly to the nearest newsstand to purchase Umbrella Number Three.

He was so frustrated with himself, and the situation in general, it took him a good three blocks before he realised he hadn't even opened the damned thing.

By this point, the umbrella was rather moot, the rain water pouring down his face and under his collar, making him shiver. He opened it anyway, and set off walking only to have something slam into him from behind, nearly knocking him off his feet. The umbrella was wrestled from his grasp, and he was tripped again for good measure.

Dumfounded, Sherlock just stared for a moment at the dark blur sprinting away with his umbrella, blinking against the water in his eyes. Of all the things Sherlock could have never predicted, it was that someone would actually sideswipe him and steal his umbrella. The lunacy of it was enough to cause a person to snap, honestly. The reason Sherlock didn't was due to the fact he didn't have enough energy to get properly angry over something so preposterous.

“Sherlock?” John's voice sounded from behind him. Sherlock turned, and watched as John left the doorway of the clinic and jogged out to meet him. “What are you doing out here? Christ, you're soaked.”

“I came to walk you home,” Sherlock said weakly.

“You did?” John said, leading them to the side of the street, arm in the air for a taxi. “Why didn't you bring a brolly?”

Sherlock sputtered in indignation, and if that wasn't bad enough, the universe apparently wasn't done mocking him because a cab pulled up just as nice as you please for John. “I did! Three of them!”

“You what?” he said, not hearing him over the thunder of rain on the cab's metal roof.

Sherlock merely grimaced, and sidled into the taxi after John.

“Goodness, you're in a state,” John chuckled. Sherlock was about to argue his point again when the feeling of John's warm hand on his brow caused him to forget what he was going to say. He shivered instead, simultaneously feeling both freezing cold, and burning hot. “You've probably caught cold,” John murmured, and Sherlock's eyes slipped closed as John carded the hair off Sherlock's forehead. It was really quite soothing. “Though I do appreciate it.”

“Mm,” Sherlock grunted, eyes still closed. His throat felt dry, and he swallowed. “Wanted to bring you an umbrella. Got stolen, though.”

“Christ,” he huffed. John's fingers continued to sift through Sherlock's hair, causing all the pent up aggravation inside him to melt bit by bit. “The nerve of some people, eh?”

Suddenly exhausted, Sherlock tipped his head back to rest against the seat back. He made another affirmative-like noise, edging just a little closer to John's warmth. “Left the other one on the Tube,” he mumbled.

“The other one? How many umbrellas were there?”

“Doesn't matter,” Sherlock sighed. He slouched down a little, his head resting on John's shoulder, eyes closed. He could feel the rumble of John's laughter against his cheek, and couldn't suppress his own grin.

“The things you do for me.”

“I've got to keep you around somehow,” Sherlock quipped, drowsily. “Terribly hard to find a flatshare in Central London.”

“You berk,” John said through his giggles.

And though freezing cold and soaked to the bone, a bit of warmth bloomed in Sherlock's chest, and he smiled.


	6. 6. "Have a good day at work."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this was a bit later than usual. Just a heads up this is probably going to be the typical pace on this thing. I started school last monday, so I have been trying to settle into my new schedule! Thank you to everyone who seems to be enjoying this story so far, your comments and kudos mean the world! xxHoney

Sherlock woke up to the sound of the street door closing with a muffled slam. He groaned, then grimaced at the gritty pain in his throat, his head giving a painful throb. He sniffled, stomach churning at the lake of mucus that apparently decided to set up camp in his sinuses.

Great. Just great.

Of course his transport would succumb to something so plebeian as illness, thereby ruining all his plans.

Before his body decided that it needed _sleep_ of all things, Sherlock planned on getting up early before John to see him off to work to make up for the dismal failure of yesterday.

Irritated, Sherlock flung his blankets off, and stood up. Only to have to lean against his bedside table as his vision suddenly tunneled. Inconvenient in the most extreme.

Sherlock breathed steadily through his nose, and when the ground stopped heaving under his feet, he shuffled himself off into the shower. His scalp felt clammy and gross, and even though he had a hot shower that previous night, he felt another one was in order.

Time really was odd, Sherlock mused as he blinked up at the ceiling, water hitting his face. It was probably on a second or two, but for all he knew, Sherlock could have been on the floor of the tub for minutes or even hours. By the still warm temperature of the water, Sherlock doubted it was that long. But still...the relativity of time was strange. Perhaps Einstein was worth another gander.

In hindsight, he really should have deduced that, in light of his first dizzy spell, the hot water was maybe a bad way to go.

“Sherlock?” Mrs. Hudson called from the other side of the door. Maybe not seconds, then. Closer to minutes. If only there was a window in the loo, he could track the light of the sun and – “Are you all right, dear?”

“Hm?”

“I heard a rather loud bang. Did you fall? Do I need to call John?”

“John,” Sherlock said, pulling himself up to sitting.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock reached for the tap, and shut off the water. It was beginning to go cool. “It's okay Mrs. Hudson. It's just Einstein...relativity.”

“I'm calling John.”

“No!” Sherlock said, rising to his feet. He stood for a moment, not entirely trusting his equilibrium, and when he felt like his balance wouldn't fail him, he carefully stepped out of the bath. The steam was already dissipating, and Sherlock was instantly hit with a chill, his body wracked with shivers.

There were two robes on the back of the door: his customary blue silk robe, and John's brown, striped terry-cloth one. Out of the two, John's looked warmer, so with shaking limbs, Sherlock pulled it on. It was a little short around his calves, but it would serve its purpose. He stood there for a moment, simply hugging it close to his body.

Sherlock's eyelids drooped as feelings of comfort and well-being unfurled through his tense and achy muscles, a heady smell of cheap laundry soap, and Old Spice body wash that was familiar and so quintessentially John. A scent forever paired with _warm_ and _safe_ and above all, _home_ in Sherlock's Mind Palace.

He shamelessly buried his nose in the lapel and breathed deep, eyes closing. God he was exhausted. Which was ridiculous given he slept the whole night.

Tea sounded nice. He unpeeled himself from the wall he was leaning on, and made his way out into the kitchen. He shivered again, looking longingly at the empty kettle on the counter. Tea was only good when John made it, so there wasn't any point. He shuffled out into the sitting room, rubbing his nose on the sleeve of the robe, and flopping face first on the sofa. He would get up in a moment and put on some clothes. Maybe find his phone and see if Lestrade had a good murder he could use to make it up to John. Yeah, that would...a double murder...locked room...that would be…

“...erlock? Sherlock?”

A warm hand gently shook his shoulder, and Sherlock turned over with a moan. His joints felt rusted over, and he was still very cold. He licked his lips. “John?” When did he get here? There was time again, acting all odd and...skippy-like.

“Hey, you,” John said, his soft smile at odds with the concern on his face. “Mrs. H called.”

“Told her not to. M'fine,” Sherlock mumbled, eyes closing again. There was something he was going to do…

“Said you fainted in the shower.”

“Did not.”

“Started talking about Einstein,” John continued, taking the pulse in Sherlock's wrist. “I figured you'd get sick from your little jaunt in the rain yesterday. You, madman.”

Sherlock grunted again, slitting his eyes back open. He attempted a menacing glare, but going by John's unimpressed snort, he probably wasn't very successful.

“John,” Sherlock said, letting himself be guided in an upright position. “There's something I need to --”

“The only thing you need is to take these,” John handed him two tablets of paracetamol, and a glass of water, “and get back into bed.”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose, but took the pills, forcing them down his swollen throat. “There,” he croaked, handing the glass back to John.

“Good,” John said, feeling his brow with the back of his fingers. Sherlock leaned in, trying to soak up his heat.

“S'cold,” he pouted, teeth clacking just to prove his point.

“That'll be the fever,” John intoned, hand cupping his face a moment. His thumb caressed the arch of his cheek, but before Sherlock could really process it, John was helping him up and ushering him back towards his bedroom.

He jerked to a stop when they reached the kitchen, suddenly remembering what he was going to do. “I was going to make you tea,” Sherlock said sadly, shoulders falling.

“What? When?” John said, a hand at the small of Sherlock's back, not pushing, merely keeping him steady. It was nice.

“When you got home because I missed this morning. Are you home now? Did I miss it again?”

John chuckled, guiding Sherlock gently into the hall. “I'm not technically here yet. Still have a few hours left for my shift. You can make me a cuppa when I get home later.”

“Okay,” Sherlock said, climbing under the covers, feeling a little more triumphant now he knew his plan wasn't a total bust. “I saved those biscuits you like.”

John smiled again, tucking the duvet around him. “Looking forward to it.”

“Good,” Sherlock said, already drifting down into that place between awake and dreams. “Have a good day at work, John.”

“I will,” John said. “And Sherlock?”

“Hm?”

John hesitated, then: “Never mind. Get some rest,” he said, then he was gone, closing the door silently as he left.

Sherlock burrowed deeper into his pillow, the ghost of a hand against his cheek and the scent of antiseptic and safe/warm/home _John_ lulling him to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is such a schmoopy-woop. I love him.


	7. 7. "I dreamt about you last night."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are just the sweetest. So patient and encouraging with this little series. This one is another short one, but I really like how it turned out. xxHoney

When Sherlock slept – if Sherlock slept – he rarely dreamt. He attributed this to his odd sleep cycle, rarely staying in the REM state for long, due to his tendency to crash headlong into deep unconsciousness after wearing himself out during cases.

In fact, aside from a disturbing reoccurring nightmare about chickens when he was younger, Sherlock couldn't recall a single dream.

That was, of course, before John.

The thing was, Sherlock's Mind Palace in recent years, had grown and expanded to house a plethora of facts and details specific to the curious Army doctor. At first, it started with a broom cupboard (which was leagues more than the token shoebox Sherlock kept for Anderson) and quickly ballooned into a proper room, and then before long, a whole wing. It was ridiculous, and impractical, when he could easily delete useless information to make room for something that could be relevant to a case or an experiment. However, Sherlock was loath to do any such thing when it concerned John Watson.

Simply, Sherlock had a hard time deciding if anything about John was irrelevant.

The slight asymmetry of his smile, for instance – the right corner of his mouth kicking up a little more than the left, indicating his deviousness or his disdain. Or the colour of his eyes –- prussian blue (which took Sherlock ages to classify) -- and how they could either be a source of light when he laughed, or as loud as thunder when he stared down the barrel of a gun. Or his hands, small, yet strong. Blunt, yet dextrous. Able to heal, and conversely, take a life. His hands alone were a study in contradictions, and these were just a few things about John Watson that took up space in Sherlock's brain. He was endless fascinating, to say the least, and Sherlock was loath to purge anything.

And then the Fall happened, and Sherlock spent two years traipsing the globe tearing down the remnants of Moriarty's web –- travelling alone from city to city, fueled only by nicotine, fear, and determination –- and all Sherlock had were those memories. 

When he was exhausted, John shouted at him to keep running in his most intimidating Captain Voice, pushing him long past the limit of what he thought he could endure. When he was stuck, there was John, sitting in his armchair as Sherlock used him as a sounding board, sometimes talking aloud for hours until he finally stumbled upon a solution or course of action.

And whenever he was alone –- sure he was going to get captured by the Peruvian mafia, or gunned down in Amsterdam, or tortured to death in Serbia –- there was John, always John. His measured voice murmuring in his ear, his hands _calloused/warm/strong_ against his brow…

_“John.”_

_“Shh, Sherlock.”_

Cool, dampness against his skin. A cloth daubed against his neck.

_“I want to go home, John.”_

_“You are. It's all going to be okay.”_

Sherlock chuckled despite the burning in his throat.

_“You always say that. Always in my dreams...”_

_“...Go back to sleep, love. It'll be better in the morning.”_

Sherlock rarely dreamt. But when he did, there was colour –- gold like the sun –- and a secret smile, and eyes that shone like the river at twilight...


	8. 8. "Here, Take My Seat."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been a while on this fic, as well as my other ones, but I am now officially done with college and have been trying to get back into the habit of writing. Needed some fluff after the finale. Love you all.

* * *

John Watson was a proud man. If Sherlock didn’t know him like he did, it would still be easy to spot. His broad shoulders were practically designed to carry the weight of duty and justice, and the way he spoke held an inherent strength that spoke volumes in both honour and authority. It was obvious from a mile away that this man held himself to a certain standard, that was used to feeling useful, and that by no means, would admit defeat.

Even if it was the occasional betrayal of his body.

Like now, for instance, they are about to board a rather crowed tube car, and Sherlock knows that John will insist Sherlock take one of the last seats even though the weather’s been bad and his leg has been acting up. He can’t just _order_ John to take the seat, because one does not just order a former Army Captain around, and any other excuse would be transparent unless — ah, yes. Of course. Give him something to focus on...primarily Sherlock himself.

As predicted, they shuffled into the car, seats filling up fast due to the never-ending crush of people. And as predicted, John manouvred himself not-so-subtly behind Sherlock, that hand present and hovering at the small of his back. 

Sherlock took one of the seats facing out, John standing in front of him, his leg pressing against one of Sherlock’s shins. It was the bad leg. Sherlock could feel the barely there shift in the way he favoured it when the car began to move. He was compensating with his good one, his balance just that little bit off, his jaw clenched with the effort of keeping his footing. Sherlock made himself wait five minutes so as to not seem conspicuous, before staging his truly award-winning performance.

“Ah! Bugger!” Sherlock nearly shouted, making several people turn and stare. He bent forward, pushing at John a little to ostensibly dig his fingers into the back of his calf.

“What?” John said, alarmed.

Sherlock hissed through his teeth as if in pain. “Spasm. Upper left gastrocnemius muscle.”

“You could just say charley horse,” John grumbled, but he ended up sounding more concerned than annoyed, the doctor surging to the fore attempting to asses and heal and fix. “Flex your ankle,” he said, gripping Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Not working,” Sherlock gritted out through clenched teeth.

“All right, all right, hang on. Switch places with me.”

“It _hurts,_ John,” he snapped convincingly, because after all he couldn't capitulate it too easy. It would be suspiciously out of character.

“I _know,_ Sherlock, but it won’t go away unless you stand up. C’mon. Up,” John said.

“Fine,” he huffed, getting to his feet and letting John squeeze past so he could occupy Sherlock’s seat. Inwardly he smirked, pleased his plan worked.

“Foot,” John then ordered, patting the knee of his good leg. Sherlock blinked, that bright clever glow rapidly deflating as confusion swiftly took its place.

“What?”

“Put your foot on my knee,” John repeated as if talking to a child. He was also pointedly ignoring the increase in curious glances aimed their direction. Sherlock would have been irritated at being _managed_ in this way if he wasn’t so...well...stunned.

 _Do you realise we’re in public?_ Sherlock wanted to ask. But John merely looked at him, eyebrows raised, clearly waiting. He lifted his foot, and placed it on John’s thigh. The stuffy lady in the atrocious purple parka next to them, glared obliquely at John. _Do you realise people are staring? Do you realise that they are thinking—that we—that you—? But you don’t like it when they stare. The assumptions. When they—_

Then John’s skilled fingers kneaded into Sherlock’s calf, and he promptly forgot his mixed emotions on the matter, and the bitty in the eye-watering outer-garment could go choke on her cheap pearls for all he cared.

Because on closer inspection, John wasn’t oblivious to the people around him. Not at all. In fact, it was almost as if he knew exactly what Sherlock was up to by the way he let his hand slide down his ankle and left it there. Lip quirking as he made eye contact with the woman, who hastily looked away when she had been caught out. 

Sherlock blinked again, and John squeezed his ankle.

“Better?” he asked innocently.

“Mhm,” Sherlock said, finally letting his foot slide back to the floor. “Thank you.”

“Any time,” John said, winking at Sherlock. Then, as if they do this sort of thing all the time, he reached up and firmly laced their fingers together.

The woman got off at the next stop despite it clearly being three stops too soon for her.

Sherlock was too busy musing about this to notice their hands remained clasped for the entire ride.


End file.
